


A Song to Bring Me Closer to You

by OceannanotOceania



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceannanotOceania/pseuds/OceannanotOceania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, John learns how to play the violin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song to Bring Me Closer to You

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [ this](http://bbcsherlockheadcanon.tumblr.com/post/56547815111/submission-by-impalabby) lovely headcanon.

About two months after Sherlock’s death, and the day after he had visited Sherlock’s grave again, John goes over to Sherlock’s violin. The violin had been sitting in its case for quite a while now, beginning to gather dust. He lays the case on its side, unzipping the side, and lifting up the top of it. Immediately, John is hit with the scent of old rosin and wood, and stares down at the beautiful, reddish-brown colour of the violin. He lifts up the velcro that holds the violin in place, pulling the instrument out of its case. He plucks one of the strings at random, listening to how the string rings out in the flat, soon realising how off it sounded compared to when Sherlock would play.

John sighs, placing the violin back in its case, closing the lid on it before going back to sit in his chair. He sits in silence, occasionally stealing glances back at the violin case. John’s thoughts begin to wander, always going back to Sherlock playing the violin. Especially when Sherlock had gotten the news that Irene was “dead”, he would often play the violin well into the morning, making it so that John would get less sleep than he normally did. It always drove John mad, especially when Sherlock would play the same song over and over, with perhaps a few seconds of silence at the end before he launched into another rendition of the same song.

But now, John misses when the music of the violin invaded the flat. He misses when Sherlock would come out of his mind palace, playing a song or two for the sake of helping him think, or for the amusement of John. He misses Sherlock playing for Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, or anyone else who Sherlock considered an “acquaintance” when they came over to the flat. Hell, even part of him misses when Sherlock would stay up until the wee hours of the morning playing. Nowadays, the flat is too quiet. Mrs. Hudson would occasionally try to talk to John, and John in return would try to respond to the little questions Mrs. Hudson would ask. In the end, though, their conversations never lasted very long. Ultimately, their conversation would always go to the topic of Sherlock, an area that neither of them could talk about for too long before being barraged with painful memories, especially for John. So, it came to be that conversation between John and Mrs. Hudson gradually dried up, coming to the point where there were days that the only words the two exchanged were a simple “Thank you.” and “You’re welcome, dear.” whenever Mrs. Hudson brought up tea or a sandwich. Nowadays, the flat is covered, practically smothered, by a blanket of mournful silence that takes away the ability to speak.

John looks back at the violin case, walking back over to the desk and lifting up the lid, pulling out the violin. It would be nice for John to be able to hear the violin once again. John knows that he wants to learn how to play the violin, if nothing else, to help a part of Sherlock live on. He plucks another of the violin’s strings, letting it ring out before moving on to another one, and repeating this for the highest string. John places the violin back in its case, and closing the lid again. It’s official, John thinks, he has to learn how to play the violin.

\---

For the past few days, the idea of learning the violin has plagued John. How would he rather learn, with a teacher, or on his own? If he were to learn on his own, would it be better if he taught himself through lessons on the Internet, or with lesson books? Eventually, John decides that it would be best for him to learn on his own. The idea of having a teacher is somewhat daunting to him. Were he more adept at utilising the Internet, John would likely use articles on there, but he ultimately decides that print books would be better. John sighs, leaning back in the chair he is in. Where is the closest music store, in the first place? There is bound to be one nearby. John tries to bring up memories of him and Sherlock running through London, chasing after the most recent suspect, trying to remember what shops he and Sherlock would pass. The signs of the shops eventually blur into a streak of different coloured lights, indistinct shapes that seemed to have no lettering John could read. John sighs, wondering why he would even try to recall something like that. His mind works nothing like Sherlock’s, who likely had not only the streets of London memorised, but also the various shops the pair passed as they ran along those streets.

John gets up to retrieve his laptop, about to Google the nearest music shop, when an idea comes to him. He puts down his laptop, hesitantly walking to Sherlock’s room. He pauses outside the door, hand hovering over the doorknob, before shaking his head. Grip tightening on the doorknob, he opens the door. He slowly walks into Sherlock’s room, taking in the sight of the room that has remained relatively unchanged. Walking into the room, the pathway is relatively clear, the two desks holding various objects on the opposite side of Sherlock’s bed, closer to the closet with two white doors. John walks over to the closet, noting how on one of the desks, there is what would be an ongoing experiment. A small, sad smile comes onto his face when he sees a yellow memo pad placed in front of the experiment, covered in Sherlock’s scrawl. He shakes his head, letting out a breath before he opens both of the closet doors.

The closet is filled practically to the brim, the closet rod filled with all of Sherlock’s clothing that is likely worth at least three times as much as John’s clothing. A shelf sits below the closet rod, filled with different pairs of shoes, a few ties, and some of the gifts that Sherlock got from those he had saved, but that were never used. Above the closet rod is a long shelf that takes up the whole top of the closet, filled with various cardboard boxes that appear to be completely filled, each one labeled in Sherlock’s familiar handwriting. John stands a bit taller, frowning when he is too short to see what the boxes in the back are labeled with. He walks out of Sherlock’s room, soon returning with a stool. He gets up onto the stool, looking at the labels of the boxes towards the back until... There. In the farther left corner of the closet, John finds a box, somewhat smaller than the rest, appearing to be taped over, and labeled on the front with “Music”. John pushes around the boxes, pulling out a few so that he can reach the box, and pulling it out before placing it on Sherlock’s bed. He replaces the other boxes, closing the doors of the closet, and walks over to Sherlock’s bed. John grabs a knife off the desk with Sherlock's abandoned experiment, and cuts open the box, slowly lifting up the flaps, unable to suppress the small smile that comes onto his face.

The box is filled to the top with various copies of sheet music, all fairly yellowed, and upon further digging through the box, he finds a few technique books. John picks up one of the pieces of sheet music that is a bit more yellowed than the others, and notices writing on it. There are two different styles of handwriting: one that he initially believes to be Sherlock’s, but upon further inspection, he realises is likely the handwriting of his teacher, and the other to be Sherlock’s. Granted, the handwriting is larger and slightly exaggerated, but John is able to recognise it as Sherlock’s handwriting from when he was a child. John flashes a small smile, hand ghosting over the writing that talked about increasing the crescendo, or remembering when to lift the bow.

John shakes his head, putting all of the sheet music into the box, placing the technique books on top, before grabbing the box and placing it on the table in the living room next to the violin. He glances at the violin case, tempted to lift open the lid, before shaking his head. While he did want to start on the endeavour of learning how to play the violin, John realises that his shift at the clinic would be starting in about an hour, and that he should start heading over there. John gives the violin case one last glance before grabbing his jacket, putting on his shoes, and heading out of the flat.

\---

It takes a few hours, the pegs falling a few times, and John cursing to himself that he would probably end up breaking the strings, but eventually, John had been able to tune the violin back to its former glory with the help of an old chromatic tuner John had found in the Music box. The beginner technique book sits on the brown, wooden music stand, flipped open to a page showing fingerings, all of the scales covered in the book on the next page. It is a bit of a struggle for John to play some of the songs in the book, especially since he has trouble recalling what notes are where on the treble clef from the days of reading sheet music for when he had to play the clarinet in school. However, John continues to play something from the technique book for at least half an hour everyday, feeling a spark of joy every time the notes that he play sound less scratchy, or are more in tune.

For the most part, John chooses to play relatively quiet, both because of a tinge of insecurity he feels about how he sounds, and because he wants to avoid disturbing Mrs. Hudson. However, a couple of weeks since he started learning how to play the violin, John had decided to learn how to play God Save the Queen. The song itself appears to be pretty easy, filled with a simple rhythm and fingerings. He had been feeling pretty confident that day in regards to his progress on the violin, and had decided to try and play a bit louder than before. John stands in front of the music stand, sighing once before he starts to play. Initially, John plays fairly quiet, but soon decides to fight this impulse, instead trying to elongate his bow strokes while remaining in tempo. This mindset works in his favour, having John play closer to a mezzoforte, and suddenly, he hears the door practically slam open.

“Sherlo-!” John turns, almost dropping the violin, and sees Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway, eyes slightly wide. “Oh, it’s you.” Mrs. Hudson’s face falls, and John gingerly places the violin on the table, walking over to Mrs. Hudson. “I thought it was...” John frowns, hesitantly pulling Mrs. Hudson into a hug, her head on John’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I heard the violin, and so I thought it was...” John feels a few tears wetting his sleeve, and he simply nods, face changing to a stoic expression.

John and Mrs. Hudson stand there, just in front of the door into the living room, John feeling the tears continue to wet his sleeve for a few minutes. When John hears the faint sobs stop, he lets go of Mrs. Hudson, stepping a few paces away from her. Mrs. Hudson sniffs.

“I didn’t know you were learning how to play the violin.”

“Yeah, um, I decided to do it a few weeks ago.” John flashes a sad smile. “Thought it might help preserve his memory.” Mrs. Hudson smiles.

“I’m glad you’re doing that. At least some good will come out of this whole ‘Sherlock Holmes is a Fake’ ordeal.” John’s eyes widen slightly at that. “Oh love, I hope I didn’t strike too much of a chord. You know that the people who Sherlock cared about truly know who he is.” John shakes his head, nodding once.

“Right. Um, yeah.” Mrs. Hudson flashes a sympathetic smile.

“You know what sounds good? A nice cuppa. Come on down, love.”

John smiles in response. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

\---

Sherlock sits on the bed of the newest rented hotel room, hands steepled under his chin. He sighs, mind on edge as he waits for the next assignment from Mycroft. Occasionally, his mind flits to the thought of John, and he soon feels a rush of regret and desire to see him again, promptly trying to suppress it since he knows how sentiment can blur his thinking during cases. Sherlock’s phone, placed a few centimetres from his right hip, suddenly bings, and Sherlock grabs it, lazily looking at the screen before unlocking his phone.

 

_John has begun to learn how to play the violin. MH_

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, reading the text again to confirm that what he thinks he read is indeed what he read.

 

_What? SH_

 

_Granted, he has yet to sound anything like you, but John has been playing the violin. I have been keeping an eye on him these past few months you’ve been away in order to assure that he does not do anything rash. MH_

 

Sherlock frowns.

 

_I thought you were going to minimise your interference in John’s life while I am away. SH_

 

_I am merely watching out for the well-being of your...blogger, dear brother. MH_

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Of course his brother would ignore his requests if it had anything to do with surveillance.

 

_Of course you are. Are you texting me with an assignment, or merely to talk to me about John? SH_

 

_I do not have any assignments for you at the moment. Perhaps you can return to London. MH_

 

Sherlock frowns, staring at the phone screen. He did miss the scenery of London. However, it would be a pain if he was caught. Of course, his hair had been dyed a reddish-brown, his coat (forcibly) taken from him, and Mycroft had bought him a completely new wardrobe, however he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of paranoia about getting caught.

 

_Perhaps London would be a nice change to travelling anywhere and everywhere at your whim. SH_

 

_I figured as much._ (Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing that Mycroft likely has a smirk on his face, even though he couldn’t hear the tone of Mycroft’s voice) _I will send another message containing the flight arrangements. MH_

 

_Understood. SH_

 

Sherlock places the phone in his lap, picking it up again when his phone beeped again, indicating that he had a text from Mycroft’s other phone. The message is encrypted using a different method than Mycroft’s previous messages had used, but one that is still recognised fairly easily by Sherlock. He smirks, feeling a tinge of joy at the fact that he would be back in London within the next couple of days. Granted, he would not be able to see John face-to-face for quite a long time now, but perhaps John played violin loud enough that he would be able to hear without having to actually be in the flat. Sherlock feels the smirk on his face melt into some sort of smile, and immediately feels a hint of concern. Perhaps he shouldn’t go back to London so quickly. If he went back so soon, there would be a chance that he would not want to leave, and all of his effort that has gone toward taking down Moriarty’s web would be in vain. Just recently, he had began to hear about one Sebastian Moran, supposedly one of Moriarty’s best assassins that appears to have taken over for him. Sherlock shakes his head, placing his hands under his chin again, closing his eyes, and slowing his breathing somewhat. He thinks of purging the emotions he is currently feeling, avoiding focusing too long on how he would soon be in London.

\---

John walks into 221B, immediately walking over to where the violin case and music stand are placed. He looks out one of the windows, noting how dark it is outside, and curses to himself. Unlike Sherlock, John feels hesitant to play when it is so late out, not wanting to disturb anyone nearby, or at the very least Mrs. Hudson. Unfortunately, he had yet to practise violin today due to having to take up another doctor’s shift at the clinic who had been out sick that day, in addition to his own shift, and had to fill out paperwork for not only his patients, but for the doctor he had replaced that day. Since John had fallen into a bit of a habit of practising at least half an hour (since his confidence in his skills have grown recently, he has taken to playing closer to forty-five minutes, even an hour on some days), he knows that it would be a disappointment to not play that day. John sighs, mumbling a _“Sod it.”_ before pulling out the violin, plucking at the strings, glance alternating between the violin and the tuner sat on the music stand.

John flips throughout the technique book, playing songs with titles that caught his eye, not too particular on working on a certain skill or scale (like he tried to do most days), instead wanting to get lost in the act of playing. After about an hour, John shakes his head, grabbing a flannel to rub off the rosin on his bow, about to put away the violin before he sees an odd shadow outside the window. He raises an eyebrow, placing the bow on the open case, before walking over to the window, pulling open one of the curtains. With the help of the light shining onto the pavement, John sees the back of a tall, lanky man, dressed in a white shirt and jeans, hair short and fiery red, walking away from the flat. John feels a spark of déjà vu at the sight of the man, feeling as if he had seen the lanky man somewhere before, but the subject is soon dropped with a shake of John’s head before he heads away from the window, going to put away his violin.

~

It’s about 8:30 in the evening when Sherlock arrives in London. He lets out a frustrated sigh, remembering that Mycroft had mentioned off-handedly that John tended to practise violin in the afternoon or morning, depending on the shift he had at the clinic, and knowing that he’d likely miss John playing. Sherlock hails a cab, still wanting to go to 221B even though the airport is about 15 minutes to half an hour away from the flat, depending on which route the cab driver ultimately takes.

About 20 minutes later, Sherlock arrives at the flat, greeted by silence, save for the cab driving away. For a second, he considers trying to hail the cab that had just left, choosing to stay when he notices the shadow of something along the window that is in the living room of 221B. Sherlock walks closer to the window, seeing the movement of someone setting up to play the violin. Sherlock smirks, shaking his head before leaning against the wall closest to him. After a few minutes of faintly hearing John pluck at the strings (probably tuning), there is silence, before music suddenly fills the air.

Likely due to a multitude of factors, the music that follows is not much louder than when John was tuning. Regardless, the music is still loud enough that Sherlock is able to relax, closing his eyes and leaning his back against the wall, letting the music wash over him. Every song that John plays Sherlock is able to recognise, and he soon finds himself grabbing his right arm, fingering the notes John plays with his left hand. For the most part, John sounds nice, although he has a tendency to play notes slightly flat, and hears a few scratches when John plays too quietly.

For Sherlock, the music stops all too quickly. The blanket that the music gave him falls away, leaving him in silence. Sherlock’s eyes slowly open, and he sighs, waiting for a few more minutes to see if John would play anything else, instead greeted by more silence. Sherlock shakes his head, trying to suppress the tinge of disappointment he feels at the lack of music, and walks away from the flat, hands moving to his neck to pull up a non-existent collar. Sherlock scowls. Honestly, he needs to ask Mycroft when he’ll get the coat back.

\---

All too quickly, Sherlock falls into the habit of visiting 221B in between assignments from Mycroft. For the most part, Sherlock ends up visiting in the afternoon before having to head to the Diogenes Club, and is unable to listen to John’s playing for very long for fear of both being recognised, and because even he knows that pausing outside of the flat is a bit abnormal. While these times are nice, Sherlock always prefers when he goes to 221B in the evening, and gets to hear John play because he had a later shift at the clinic, or some other reason that requires him to have to practise later than normal. At those times, Sherlock can actually stay without fear of being recognised, or sticking out too much, or being harassed by Mycroft (at least, not as often as he does earlier in the day). He’s able to stay for the whole duration of John playing, able to let the music wash over him. The only downside to hearing John play is that it makes his whole body yearn to touch the familiar wood and strings of the violin, to inhale the scent of rosin, to get lost in the sensations of playing the violin. However, listening is enough for Sherlock, at least for now.

Sherlock has been outside the flat for about 45 minutes now, leaning against the wall besides Speedy’s, lost in the sounds of the music floating down to him. Suddenly, silence surrounds Sherlock. His eyes open, glancing up towards the flat, a frown on his face. Strange. John normally plays for an hour. Sherlock considers leaving, beginning to pad away from the flat, immediately freezing when he hears an all too familiar song being played.

~

John walks into 221B, almost slamming the door to the living room behind him, immediately heading over to the violin. He pulls out the violin, hastily tuning, mentally scolding himself for taking the longer shift. He always did hate having to take the later shifts, since it pushed when he got an opportunity to practise. When he finishes tuning, John pauses, chin resting on the chin rest, before putting down the bow and violin, and heading over to Sherlock’s room. John walks over to the Music box, rummaging through the box until he finds the piece he is looking for. This piece is much less yellowed than the others, the score itself written by Sherlock. John pauses, hand lightly caressing the sheet music, before shaking his head.

A small part of him worries that playing this piece would be a bad idea. After all, this was written for Irene, not for John to play while he mourns over Sherlock. However, John did have one thing in common with Sherlock in regards to why they want to play this piece: they are (or, were) mourning over the loss of someone that mattered to them. John gulps, shaking away the hint of worry he feels, before picking the piece up and heading back to the living room.

While not intentional, John ends up ignoring the piece while first practising. It’s only after about 45 minutes that John pauses, taking the technique book off the music stand and placing it on the table. He looks over the piece, sighing to himself. The piece itself isn’t too hard technique-wise, requiring only a bit of shifting, maybe some vibrato to make it sound nicer. After all, the piece is written more to express emotion, rather than to illustrate showmanship. John shakes his head, taking another breath to clear his head, before picking up the violin. He takes one last breath before he begins to play.

~

Sherlock is frozen in place, looking up towards the living room, as he is barraged by the sound of Irene’s Theme. While Sherlock is able to note the occasional flat or sharp note, it isn’t what keeps Sherlock there. It’s the fact that the way John plays the song hits Sherlock with a wave of emotions, the most prominent being sorrow, guilt, and a tinge of anger. Every time the bow scratches from pushing with too much pressure, every squeak of the string, even with every sharp or flat note, Sherlock feels as if a shard of glass has stabbed him, twisting further and further into him.

After a few minutes that feel like an eternity, silence finally surrounds him. Sherlock reaches up to his face, brushing away a tear, watching it trail down his finger. He gulps, placing the hand back at its side, and walking away from 221B as fast as he could without running. Once far enough away, Sherlock pulls out his phone, wiping away another tear before furiously texting.

 

_Any word on Moran? SH_

 

_Ah, dear brother. I was about to call you, what a coincidence. I will send you the information in another message. MH_

 

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief, immediately opening the message when his phone pings. Oh. Siberia. Sherlock breathes another sigh of relief. Wonderful. This is just what Sherlock needs, to be as far from here as possible. He reads over the rest of the message, putting away his phone when he is finished, and leans against the wall of the alley he had run to. He slows down his breathing, trying to even it out, as the sounds of John’s playing continues to ring through his head. Once the music is muted enough, Sherlock shakes his head, walking out of the alley, and towards the Diogenes Club.


End file.
